Chapter 5 - The Ambush at the Curb
It is a peculiar talent of narcissistic families to walk into a disaster of their own creation, identify the one person holding a fire hose, and declare them the arsonist.
“Me?” I said, stepping down from the trailer tailgate into the dirty snow. “I put out the hay. Barnes popped the latch. Trevor brought the livestock.”
“Your brother’s phone didn't work!” Dad shouted, stepping past Randy, who was currently attempting to resuscitate a goat named ‘Brahma’ by whispering affirmations into its floppy ear. “He couldn't call the dispatch office to confirm the transport permit! He had to navigate by memory! He could have been killed on the turnpike!”
“Dad,” I said, peeling off my structural gloves and tucking them into my pocket. “He strapped a diesel torpedo heater to a twelve-volt boat battery and covered it in dry straw. If his phone had worked, he still would have set the goats on fire.”
“You don't understand the supply chain!” Trevor yelled from the snowbank, scrambling back to his feet. His snow pants were torn at the knee, leaking polyester batting into the slush. “The permit was online! Everything was on the cloud! But when I tried to log in at the storage unit, the cell network said my SIM card was invalid! Because *he* canceled the unlimited data plan!”
Two patrol officers from the county sheriff’s department had climbed out of their cruiser and were now approaching the trailer with their clipboards drawn and their hands resting casually near their utility belts.
“Who owns the trailer?” the first deputy asked, sniffing the air with an expression of profound disgust.
Trevor immediately pointed at Randy.
Randy immediately pointed at Trevor.
Dad pointed at me.
The deputy looked between the four of us. He was a younger guy with a flat-top haircut and a nametag that read *HARRINGTON*. He looked like a man who had hoped for a quiet Christmas morning spent eating donuts in an empty church parking lot.
“The trailer has an expired farm plate from West Virginia,” Harrington noted, tapping his pen against his report. “There’s no commercial livestock transport endorsement on the tow vehicle. And the tow vehicle is a 2004 Honda Civic with its rear axle dragging on the pavement.”
“It’s a transitional logistics vehicle,” Trevor said quickly, his voice smoothing into that oily, self-assured tone he used when trying to sell people things they didn't want. “We’re in our seed-round phase, officer. We’re disrupting the mobile stress-reduction sector.”
“You’re disrupting the Ohio Revised Code regarding animal cruelty and hazardous transport,” Harrington replied without looking up. “Who owns the Honda?”
Trevor swallowed. He glanced sideways at Dad.
Dad shifted his weight. “The vehicle is registered to my son. But there's been an administrative error with the insurance carrier. Our family representative—Oscar here—handles the risk portfolio.”
Harrington turned his gaze to me.
I stood there in my heavy black turnout gear, yellow reflective stripes glowing in the overcast daylight, the fire engine idling behind me like a thirty-ton steel wall.
“I’m not his representative,” I told Harrington clearly. “I’m a firefighter on Engine 42. I canceled my payment method for his policy eighteen hours ago. If the policy lapsed at midnight, that vehicle is uninsured, uninspected, and currently operating on public roadways without legal coverage.”
Dad’s face turned the precise color of an overcooked beet.
“Oscar!” he hissed, stepping so close I could smell the stale peppermint schnapps on his breath from the night before. “Shut your mouth! Are you trying to get your brother arrested?”
“No,” I said, meeting his eyes and holding them until he flinched. “I’m letting him experience the free market. Isn't that what entrepreneurship is about, Trevor? Risk tolerance?”
Harrington looked at the trailer. Inside, several of the goats were beginning to stir, their legs twitching as they slowly rebooted from their fainting episodes. One of them let out a sound like an elderly man clearing a congested throat.
“Tow truck is on the way,” Harrington said, checking a box on his form. “Trailer is impounded. Vehicle is cited for operating without financial responsibility. And you two—” he pointed his pen between Trevor and Randy “—are coming down to the substation to explain why you have thirty head of unregistered livestock in a residential cul-de-sac on Christmas morning.”
“Dad!” Trevor wailed, his voice cracking into full adolescent hysteria. “Do something! Pay the impound deposit! Use the garage card!”
Dad stood frozen. His mouth worked silently for three seconds.
The garage card was one of the virtual accounts Priya had terminated at 00:01 that morning.
“We’ll… we’ll handle it through the court,” Dad muttered, his shoulders slumping slightly. He glared at me with an intensity that would have withered a weaker son. “You’re happy now, aren't you? You ruined your brother’s business before it even had a chance to breathe.”
“Cap,” I said, turning my back on my father completely. “Scene’s secure. Fire’s out. Code enforcement can handle the ungulates.”
Miller nodded once. “Pack the can, Bennett. Let’s get back to the barn before the coffee gets cold.”
I climbed back into the cab of Engine 42, closed the heavy door, and pulled the headset over my ears. As the truck pulled away, I watched through the passenger mirror as Dad, Trevor, and Randy stood in the slush, surrounded by deputies, while a flatbed wrecker backed toward their smoking trailer.
Not my circus.
May you like
Not my goats.
***
